


Swing It

by seriousfic



Series: The Jennifer Lawrence With Blonde Hair Saga [1]
Category: American Hustle (2013)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/F, F/M, Hate Sex, Lesbian Sex, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/pseuds/seriousfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tips for a healthy relationship: Let your ex-wife move in with you and your current wife. Piss off her ex-boyfriend, the mobster. Watch both your current wife and your ex-wife kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I love my wife. That is, of course, I love Sydney. Sydney’s wonderful, she’s amazing, you know Sydney. But Rosalyn, my ex-wife—okay, I love her too. What can I say, the heart’s not one of those computer-machines that just boops and beeps. It sings, it makes its own music, and I never quite could stop seeing all the great things about Rosalyn I fell in love with. And I’m especially not one of those guys, two or three ex-wives and every one of them supposedly a cunt, whining about paying child support, what a bunch of schmucks. No. We’ve had our differences, but Rosalyn, she’s a peach._

_Maybe… more like a volcano. From a distance, all you see is the majesty and the glory of nature, and you know in time all that ash and lava is gonna seep into the soil and make all sorts of flowers grow. It’s great. Ya gotta love that kinda business. Then up close—you’re running for your life, praying you don’t die from being set on fire. And when the lava’s just a metaphor, I suppose it just counts as… interesting._

_Only she was dating a mobster named Pete Musane with the Meyer Lansky crime family, so the lava was really a metaphor for dying some other, hopefully less painful way._

He should’ve known she was coming from the cab. It overshot pulling up to the curb, one tire lurching up onto the sidewalk. Irving knew Rosalyn wasn’t driving, but she was just a magnet for that kind of fuck-up. She’d married him, after all.

 

Out came the woman herself, dressed in a gingham/tie combo blouse that changed patterns on the cuffs, the sleeves, the lapels. She could’ve been wearing a kaleidoscope almost. Thankfully for his odds of developing cataracts, her pants were simple white slacks and her shoes were Hollandia platform wedges.

 

The second she was on her feet, out came a lighter and Marlboro, out from her purse like she was a gunslinger pulling six-shooters. “Irving, baby, I couldn’t smoke in the cab. What’s the country coming to when you can’t smoke in a cab you hire? It’s my dime, I need to smoke—honestly, I should just start riding a bike everywhere. Who’d be laughing then, all the cab companies out of business? Me! Me and my toned calves.”

 

There Irving had been, out on his porch in a plastic lawn chair that wasn’t too comfortable, but was just comfortable enough to make him too lazy to go elsewhere. He’d been drinking a pretty nice Orange Julius from a antique sherry copita he’d bought at a great price from a secondhand store, and there was a good splash of white rum in it to keep things copacetic. He’d always thought that too much alcohol could ruin the nice groovy flavor an Orange Julius strove for, but this one had just the right amount. Now that he was semi-retired, mastering things like the right amount of alcohol in something was becoming important to him.

 

Then he saw Rosalyn and, Irving could’ve sworn, he knew how dogs felt when they sensed earthquakes. He felt like barking up a storm. His heart was beating faster too, because as ridiculous as that top was, it was pretty tight and the pants were even tighter. She was so beautiful she gave him heartburn. If only he’d told that to her on their honeymoon, it would’ve gone much better.

 

He talked like he was trying to swallow peanut butter. “Rosie—Rosalyn. What are you doing here? It’s still our week with Danny.” The kid was out with Sydney. Small favors.

 

“Thank Christ for that,” Rosalyn said, stomping across the yard. It really worried him when they both agreed on something. “I don’t want him to see me like this. My make-up’s a mess, Irving. I’ve been _crying._ ”

 

“Your make-up looks fine.”

 

But talking with Rosalyn was like trying to stop a boulder from rolling downhill. Once it got started. “You were right about Pete. I don’t say that often enough, but you were _so right._ He was a _total_ jerk, complete asshole, he _bamboozled_ me, Irv. Made me think he was a sweet, caring guy like you but that MOTHERFUCKER has no class, no taste, no redeeming qualities, I must’ve mixed up my pills to see anything in that COCKSUCKER!”

 

“Honey, we’ve got neighbors,” Irving pleaded.

 

Try to get in the way of a boulder rolling downhill and: “What do you care, divorcee living with some loose woman, not even an American, and a kid who’s not even yours. You think they don’t gossip? You bet those motherfuckers gossip. Probably think you stole Danny. Have the police been around asking about him?”

 

Before Irving could catch up with every last sentence of that, the cabbie honked his horn. “Hey!” he called, leaning out the window. “She say you pay when we get here!”

 

“I’ve got it,” she assured him. “I just need five bucks. And you’ll get my bags from the trunk? It’s only fair, I loaded them in. Me and the driver. _And he wouldn’t let me smoke!”_ Rosalyn growled.

 

Irving dug into his corduroys for a crinkled five dollar bill, which came out to be snatched from his hands by Rosalyn. She marched back to the cab, Irving trailing after her.

 

“You know what that bastard Pete Musane did? He was a fucking pervert, that’s what. Fucking dirty movies and he wanted to take pictures of me in— _things._ He even almost put his thumb up my ass. You’re a sick fuck, Irving, I don’t mean that, but he makes you look like Prince fucking Charming.” She leaned into the cab. “Pop the hood! Can’t you see he’s getting my bags?” And she slapped the money down on the passenger seat. Her train of thought finished chugging up a hill and came down the slope. “Honestly, Pete Musane, probably involved in some kind of Satanic cult like on the news, it would not surprise me at all. Trying to lure me into some kind of sexual _human sacrifice_ like those people do. You should be damn glad I made it out of there alive. Danny could be half an orphan right now if it weren’t for my women’s intuition. C’mon, hurry up with the bags, I need you to comfort me.”

 

Irving realized he was still holding his Orange Julius when she plucked it out of his hand and took a sip. “Yeah, just like this. Make me another one of these. I’ll get the door for you, too.” She went to the front door of his and Sydney’s home, drink in hand.

 

He got the bags. It took four trips. The cabbie did not help. Irving took one of his heart pills.


	2. Chapter 2

_I suppose I always saw Rosalyn Rosenfeld as something of a cancer. No, that’s too mean. I meant it in the sense that a tumor can be benign, and that you don’t judge people for having them. I never saw Irving as cheating on me with Rosalyn, or what he and I had as him cheating on her. Duplicitous, I suppose. But I simply considered Irving as having this sort of medical condition—or mental illness—of a wife and adopted son, and the same way you’d support someone with a fear of heights, I put up with him having—a wife and adopted son._

_Strangely enough, I never really hated Rosalyn either. It was more that I assumed all the irritation Irving felt toward her and couldn’t get out. It wasn’t like one of those noir films where a woman wants to bump off her husband or something so she can be with her lover. I just wanted a decent excuse to slap her. Just once._

When she came home from work, Sydney felt like a different person. At the art gallery, she knew she belonged, knew she was legitimate, but there was a voice in her head with an English accent. It told her she didn’t. It told her she was a fraud. Dirt-poor girl from Minnesota. She came home to a beautiful house and a loving husband and a good kid, she knew the voice was full of shit.

 

Except that day. That day, Rosalyn Rosenfeld was in her house, hanging up crystals like the place needed wind chimes inside. “These,” she was telling Danny, “are quartz crystals, very powerful. Everyone used to use them, the Chinese, the Indians, the Hawaiians, until the white man came and told everyone that needles worked better. Who likes needles? Except in acupuncture. Anyway, once we have them all around the house, they’re gonna create an energy grid of healing power—“

 

“I can explain,” Irving said behind her.

 

Sydney turned and took a deep breath. “I’m not angry.”

 

“No, you’re a rational, calm, beautiful woman who knows there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

 

She nodded. “Yes. A patient woman. See how patient I’m being? Waiting for that very reasonable explanation?”

 

“I think Pete kicked her out and—she needs to stay with us a couple days.”

 

“A couple days.”

 

“Maybe a few weeks.”

 

“Few weeks?”

 

“Definitely not a month. Not a month.”

 

Sydney refused to turn around as the tinkling of a crystal sounded behind her, like an echo. “Could I talk to you outside, please? I don’t think I can spend another five seconds in this house without ripping down all the crystal shit your ex-wife is putting up.”

 

They stepped out onto the backyard porch. Very calmly, Sydney took the paperback she was reading out of her purse. Looking for Mr. Goodbar by Judith Rossner. She slapped Irving with it, hitting the stiff spine against his shoulder. He yowled low-key, shielding his face, but gritting his teeth more than defending himself. She stopped after a few seconds.

 

“ _Why?”_

“Why?”

 

“Why is that woman in our house?” Sydney demanded, her voice becoming more strident but not necessarily louder.

 

“Because her relationship ended and she’s got nowhere else to go—“

 

“Big surprise! It’s _Rosalyn._ She’d marry Charlie Manson if he was single!”

 

“I don’t think he is married, actually.”

 

Sydney hefted the paperback threateningly.

 

“Okay! Okay.” Irving straightened his lapels. “If you knew this was coming—“

 

“Ha! You didn’t?”

 

He shook his head. “If _you knew,_ what was your plan going to be?”

 

“Put her ass in a motel!”

 

“A motel.” He nodded along with her insistent look. “A fucking motel, the mother of my child—“

 

“Jesus Christ…”

 

“I’m just—hey—“ Irving slammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m thinking about Danny here. I want all his parents to get along and like each other because that’s what normal, well-adjusted kids have with their parents. Okay? Not some shit about his mom getting thrown out on the street and coming to his father and getting just some fucking change for a _motel._ That’s not something healthy people have in the back of their brain. That’s some shit from the funny pages, that’s what makes you grow up to fight Spider-Man.”

 

“Spider-Man,” she repeated caustically. “Irving, _what the fuck would you know about healthy people?_ ”

 

He looked inside. Rosalyn was holding Danny up so he could hang a crystal over the window. The kid looked so happy.

 

Her hands were suddenly on his face like ice, that’s how cold they were. They forced his eyes into hers. “You know I’ve always been proud of you? Throughout this whole crazy thing, there was only one time it was hard. I could be pissed at you, I could be worried for you, but there was only one time I almost wasn’t proud. That first time you told me how you conned people. And it wasn’t you—“ Her voice wasn’t solid. It was creaking like thin ice. “It wasn’t you I was ashamed of, it was _us._ I was thinking ‘am I really the person who can be in love with this guy?’ But even then we were so much alike. It was like I could hear your voice in my head. We all con each other, right? You’re just better at it. We’re just better at it. But for a moment there, I was ashamed to be in love with you. Just that once.” She looked down at her hand like she’d forgotten she was holding a book in it. She put it back in her purse. She was still wearing her purse, she was still wearing her coat. It made things easier. “Two times now.”

 

And she walked out. Irving took one of his heart pills.


	3. Chapter 3

_I never hated Sydney. I’m just not a hateful person. I was angry *with her* for Irving being weak and her taking advantage of that, but men cheat. It was a fact of life. My father cheated on my mom and my mom told me that my grandfather had cheated on Nana, so there’ve always been whores and men who just need a little something extra on the side. I don’t mind that._

_It’s not like I haven’t thought about it myself even. I’ve had some pretty intense dreams about David Cassidy, but I don’t wanna *fall in love* with the guy, right?, I don’t wanna move to Hollywood and live in his basement or something. I keep things in perspective, and Irving never had that without me. No perspective. Everything’s just these trees, look at this big tree Rosalyn, look at this little tree, trees trees trees trees. And here I am, looking at the forest. I came up with that myself, by the way, don’t ask me where I got it, I’m always thinking up philosophical shit like that, I should write some of it down._

Irving couldn’t sleep that night. He laid in bed, thinking if only he could call her, if only he knew where she was so he could call her, if only she had a little phone she could put in her pocket and he could call her on that. Yeah, right. And then he could call the Enterprise and tell Mr. Scotty to beam him over to her.

 

It was a good house he’d bought. Solid house. Thick walls. Voices didn’t carry. So he didn’t hear the front door open, the heels click over tile and muffle on carpet. He didn’t know Sydney was home until she opened the door to the bedroom and found him lying on his back, a cigarette propped in his mouth.

 

“How many times have I told you about smoking in bed?” She shut the door behind her, gracefully, like a dance move. “It causes house fires.”

 

“Sydney, baby, my love—“

 

She saw the overflowing ashtray. “I emptied that out last week. Shit, how many of those things have you smoked?”

 

“Two packs, but I already had one started when you left.”

 

“Shit, Irv—those things’ll kill you before the fire can.”

 

“There ain’t gonna be a fire—“ He stubbed the cigarette out. Smiled at her. “Sydney. Sydney, you’re back!”

 

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Yeah? Why not? You’re everything to me. I can go out and wear some hot outfit and speak in my accent and get hit on twenty times—“

 

“Twenty?”

 

“It’s not any fun without you.” She climbed onto the bed, her knees denting the mattress, jostling him like he was a boat on the ocean. “I’m sorry I yelled, baby. I know you’re just trying to do right by Rosalyn. You’ve over her. You are over her. Right?”

 

She held her hand stiffly by her side, like she did when she wanted him to take it. He took it. “Yeah, baby. We’re done. I can’t think what I ever saw in her.” He saw the quirk in her brow that told him that bullshit was hitting the little red zone on the dial. “I mean, I know what I saw in her, but I can’t believe I didn’t see more of it in you.”

 

Sydney crumpled, landing on his stomach, resting her head on his paunch like a father-to-be listening for the baby. “Irv, you’ve got less shit in you than any man I’ve ever met, but you’re still full of it. But it is good shit. And I am sorry I made you worry.”

 

“What, me worry?” He grinned. “I was just in a smoking mood. I get in those. Happens every seven years, like a clock. Bada- _bing,_ I’ve gotta smoke everything in the house.”

 

“Yeah, this place smells like a coal mine. You need to cut back.”

 

“It cools me down, baby. I’m a single father, I’ve got two pesky kids to handle.”

 

“Two—oh. _Funny._ ” She patted his love handles. “No lighting up until the weekend. We’re gonna be spending more on tobacco than gas, you don’t quit. You wanna relax, you let your wife handle that. That’s what we’re here for.”

 

“We?”

 

Another hand at his ribs, this time a little harder. “Wives. Idiot. In general. But with you, just me. Just me, Irv.” She kissed the fabric stretched tight over his belly. “Did she ever do this for you, baby? You can’t tell me some bratty housewife from Long Island did this…”

 

Irving started to breathe hard as Sydney’s head slid down his body. He was starting to wish he had his heart pills on him.

 

***

 

Rosalyn thought she finally had it all figured out. Past lives. Just like her psychic had warned her about. Clearly, back when Irving had been a Viking chieftain, she’d been his shield-maiden, but they hadn’t found each other when Irving was a gunfighter in the Old West, so he’d shacked up with a saloon girl who’d been reincarnated as Sydney. Simple as that. Who could even tell how many times they’d swapped him in all their cycles? But this time really blew, because she’d seen Irving first, _married him_ first, and Sydney still got him. Total bullshit. Bad karma. She wouldn’t be surprised if Sydney ended up a flea in the next life.

 

She wondered if Sydney was still out. Probably. Probably staying out all night. Maybe even still seeing that curly-haired IRS agent Risakyb’d seen her with. Oh yeah, she’d seen how those two looked at each other. And say what you would about Rosalyn—you couldn’t say that much, though, she did have depression and anxiety and she wasn’t even sure that her shrink had diagnosed all of her disorders, she might have more, society barely cared about the mentally ill, that was just her cross to bear.

 

But say what you would about Rosalyn, _she_ was always home for Irving when he needed her. She was there 24/7. She didn’t take vacations or lunch breaks like it was some job flipping burgers. No. She was _there_ for her man. And, because she wasn’t the type to hold a grudge unless someone was really asking for it, she would go check in on Irving, even though he’d left her for some red-headed slut. That was just how big her heart was. She would always place his needs before her own.

 

Besides, she couldn’t find a drink anywhere and how was she supposed to sleep sober? What was this, the Middle Ages?

 

Padding through the house on her bare feet, and finding the tile floor way too fucking cold, she came to Irving’s bedroom. Tried the door. It was locked. Yeah, that was safe. What if there was a fire, little Danny ran for help from his adopted parents, and then the door’s locked? What was he even doing in there, anyway, he needed the door locked? Rosalyn got down on her knees and looked through the keyhole.

 

Then she watched as Sydney Prosser, that whore, sucked her ex-husband’s cock.

 

It was a good-sized cock. Rosalyn had never had any complaints about it. And Sydney was doing a good job with it—cheeks puffed out, lips stretched thin, a shimmer of spittle running from the corner of her mouth. But the evident skill and passion of their… their _blowjob_ made Rosalyn sick to her fucking stomach.

 

She just couldn’t believe she was watching Sydney’s head bobbing up and down on her ex-husband, his thick thigh muscles flexing rhythmically. Where were his—there they were. His fat balls were squeezed under Sydney’s chin as she took him deep down her throat.

 

Rosalyn was not a sensual woman. She knew a wife’s duty was to provide certain outlets for her husband, and as long as those outlets were filled the marriage was in great shape, but past the obligation and, honestly, the enjoyment she got out of having Irving so completely in her thrall, she’d always considered sex somewhat dirty. A little sinful.

 

Her first husband had come from a wealthy family; she should’ve been set for life, only his parents hadn’t approved and though they’d tolerated the marriage, they’d cut him off when Danny was conceived. And Rosalyn had tried, she’d tried really, really hard to get her stepparents to like her. See that she wasn’t just some floozy. She had a picture in her head, vivid as the silver screen, of them finally inviting her to their house. And when they did, her stepmother would look her in the eye and see she was a _good girl,_ not some cheap slut who’d put the moves on her son. And she would see that all over Rosalyn because _that_ was how she lived.

 

And even after he’d died and she’d taken up with Irving, she’d tried to be decent. Sex only once a week, maybe more often, but it didn’t count if she was drunk. She knew that frustrated Irving. Probably drove him to Sydney. But she knew he understood her little quirks—only having sex at night, only with the lights out, only under the covers, and always, _always_ in the missionary position. Deep down, he didn’t _want_ some tawdry seductress for a wife. _That_ would make him lose all respect for her, and that was far more harmful to a marriage than withholding sex until he really, truly needed it.

 

“Oh-ho-ho, _yeah_ ,” Irving moaned, either hand cupped in Sydney’s curly hair. “That is how you use a fucking your tongue! _Yes!_ Oh, baby, you are the _absolute!”_

Well, she shouldn’t have expected any better from Irving. Leave it to some _man_ not to know a good thing when he had it and want some cheap skank who would allow herself to be degraded, let both of them be degraded, really, doing something as filthy as _sucking_ on a man’s _penis._

Sydney gagged on another few inches of his member, but took it in her throat. Rosalyn was goggle-eyed. How was she _doing_ that? Could she eat whole carrots in one gulp too? This was the kind of thing Rosalyn had read about—deep-throating. Only it was only supposed to be in the movies, a special effect, and here was Sydney doing it with a real life prick! And enjoying it, too! Having her mouth stretched out like a fucking balloon! Rosalyn could _tell_ she was enjoying it, moaning as loud as she was.

 

Not that Rosalyn ever would do something as filthy as that, but if she did, she thought she could maybe take half of Irving’s cock in her mouth. But Sydney had three-quarters lost between her lips, and there was Irving breathing like a bellows, asking her to take even more!

 

God, her cunt was hot. Why was it so fucking hot? She knew. With Sydney such a whore and Irving such a pushover, she’d probably caught a disease between the two of them.

 

Irving took off his near-omnipresent shades and shook his head to clear himself of some of the sweat on his forehead and in his hair. He was staring down at Sydney like it was some kind of miracle, putting a penis into your mouth. “Take the whole thing. Yeah, babe—come on. You can do it,” he panted. If Rosalyn were just listening in, she wouldn’t know if he was in pain or ecstasy.

 

Sydney slurped her way off him with a truly disgusting sound, gave Irving a smile that made Rosalyn want to vomit, then rolled onto her back. Irving rolled too, kneeling with his legs on either side of Sydney’s throat. Sydney opened her mouth cheekily, daring him with her eyes. Rosalyn watched in total disbelief as Irving put his thing at her lips, tensed his legs, and shoved forward to bury all of his cock in her mouth.

 

As much a bitch as Sydney was, Rosalyn felt sorry for her as she choked and stiffened. Irving was clutching his heart, making strangled sounds while Sydney’s eyes bulged and beads of sweat coursed over her wrinkled brow. Her nostrils flared like a bull’s. Rosalyn thought she was choking to death on that cock lodged in her throat, just like had happened to that teenager in Florida she’d read about. But Irving just flexed his ass cheeks, fucking his way down Sydney’s throat.

 

Rosalyn was just about to scream for them to stop—as pissed off as Irving made her, she didn’t want him going down for a murder charge—when Irving let out a sigh and pulled out slowly. It seemed to take weeks, but he kept going until he was all out but his cockhead. Rosalyn could see Sydney sucking at it, her tongue lashing just under the knob, blowing it with the gusto of a virtuoso. She liked it. Sydney really did like sucking cock.

 

Well… how the fuck was Rosalyn supposed to compete with that?

 

Even Sydney didn’t seem to know how good she was. Irving came before she was ready, bursting just as she licked his tip. He shot onto her lips, over her shoulder to the bedspread, even a splash on her collarbone before she got his prick clamped between her lips and drank him down smoothly as soda through a straw. Irving groaned and gave Sydney a few quick thrusts before he was done. After he pulled out, Sydney licked her chin clean. Rosalyn held a hand to her heart. _Awful._

Finally giving her jaw a rest, Sydney crawled beside Irving for a laydown. He submitted meekly to her clutching his cock as she lightly kissed at his chest.

 

Rosalyn went back to her room. She almost wished she hadn’t broken things off with Pete. She could’ve used a man right about then.


	4. Chapter 4

Irving was feeling pretty good on his way to work. Okay, so Rosalyn was in trouble. He was fine. The kid was fine. Sydney was fine. It wasn’t like with DiMaso, when there’d been trouble coming in on all fronts. This was just one problem. He’d handle it before anything else came along and that would be that.

 

Then he turned the corner to his Laundromat, meaning to buy the boys lunch, and saw Pete Muscane and six goombas standing in front of the shop. He turned around to run, but got more turned around than he intended, and they jumped him before he could take off. “Oh no,” he said. He was too scared to find a profanity to spew. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”

 

A white van pulled up and they ganged him through the side-door, sealing it shut behind them like a tomb. The van took off. Its lurching acceleration was in concert with the drop in Irving’s stomach. “I’m being kidnapped!” he shouted.

 

“Shut up,” Pete growled, fingers twitching like he could feel himself slapping the other man.

 

“I’m being kidnapped,” Irving said quieter, almost to himself. “I’m being kidnapped, I’m being kidnapped-“ He kept up the litany as Pete cracked his knuckles.

 

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Me and Rosalyn, we had a good thing goin’. All of us had a good thing. You had your girl, I had mine, we split the kid. Good thing. Why’d you have to come waltzing back into our lives—“

 

“I’m being kidnapped!” Irving repeated shrilly.

 

“You should’ve stayed away, Irving. You really should have just stayed away.”

 

Irving held up his hands in repeated, frantic ‘just let me explain’ gestures, his eyes begging for time. Pete kneaded his right fist in his open palm, waiting for an explanation.

 

“I’m being kidnapped,” Irving said. Then, clutching his chest, quieter: “I’m being kidnapped…”

 

He slumped over, head twice hitting the floor like a basketball being dribbled.

 

“I think he’s having a heart attack, boss,” someone said.

 

“I thought we were only gonna rough him up.”

 

“A heart attack’s pretty rough.”

 

Pete coughed a little. He’d never seen anyone dying before. “Maybe we oughta—let’s go to the hospital? Hey, let’s go to the hospital!”

 

***

 

When Irving woke up, Rosalyn was already talking. “It was the chamomile tea. Thank God for me, Irv; that chamomile tea I told you to drink, it must’ve saved your life. All those antioxidants. You ask the doctor when he comes in. If you’d had any more oxidants in you, you wouldn’t be standing here today.”

 

Irving shuffled in his hospital bed. “I’m lying down.”

 

“Don’t correct me, Irving. I came here to comfort you, but I will not put up with male correctionalism. Drink this.” She handed him a cup of water.

 

He drank it greedily, looked around for a doctor. “I’m… I’m okay?”

 

Her smile—when she smiled—could be dazzling. “Yeah, baby. You’re going to be just fine. The doctors say it was only a small heart attack. You were only out for so long because you’re—so—lazy.” She punctuated the comment poking playfully at his arm.

 

He smiled in a bit of relief, but he still felt like he had in the van. Like he was stammering, trying to get something out while it clung tight to his vocal cords. “I almost died.”

 

“I know, baby.”

 

They were alone in the tiny room. Him, her, and all their history, all the fuck-ups. The door was shut. He started to cry.

 

“I almost died…”

 

She moved to the bed beside him, took his head in his arm, and gently petted his hair. Her fingers slipped under his toupee so he could feel them on the bare skin of his scalp. That made him cry harder for some reason.

 

“I could’ve died… I almost died…”

 

Sydney came in a few minutes later. It’d taken some time for the hospital to reach her and for her to get through crosstown traffic. When she came in to see Irving and Rosalyn together, she did not feel pain or jealousy. She was simply happy that Irving hadn’t been alone.

 

Kneeling by the other side of the bed, she took Irving’s hand.

 

***

 

_So now I had a bum ticker. Ever seen one of those edited-for-TV movies where they cut out all the good stuff? Imagine someone doing that for my life. No tobacco. No red meat. No salt. Vegetables. Exercise. JOGGING. And I still had Roselyn to deal with. I was fighting a war on two fronts, and the center could not hold._

_Oh, and no sex. Which might’ve been for the best. If I did cheat with Rosalyn, I might as well drop dead on the spot, because it would be better than whatever Sydney had in store for me._

 

When they got back from the hospital, Rosalyn and Sydney had to steer Irving, like a zombie, from the car to his bedroom. He was so zonked out on meds that he laid down already asleep. Rosalyn had to lift his legs while Sydney pulled the sheets out from under him. They both pulled the bedsheet up to his chin.

 

Sydney hurried out of the room. Rosalyn stayed by his side, wanting to prove something, but she got bored pretty quickly. She went out into the kitchen, where Sydney was cleaning out the fridge of all the food the doctors had told Irving to avoid.

 

She was housewife enough to put some in a bag for charity, but con artist enough to fix the rest in the crockpot for some kind of stew. Or maybe it was the other way around. Rosalyn always thought of charity as a con. You gave stuff away and it was supposed to make you feel better about yourself, but did it ever really? If it did, why did people have to keep giving stuff away?

 

“So…” Rosalyn said, thinking Sydney would pick up the slack of the conversation. But Sydney just filled a bowl with the soup and passed it to her. Rosalyn took it, didn’t eat. “I think it’s really great what you’re trying to do for Irv. Waiting on him and stuff. That’s good.”

 

“Thanks.” Sydney shrugged. “It’s what any wife would do.”

 

Rosalyn bit her lip, thought for a moment, then piped up like they hadn’t exchanged words at all. “I’ll explain it to Danny.”

 

“He already knows.”

 

“No, the other thing.”

 

“What other thing?”

 

“You leaving.” Rosalyn ran a hand through her hair. “I mean, you’ll probably want to be leaving now. You’ve been great and all, but—“

 

“Why would I leave?” Sydney asked.

 

“I don’t know—I’m his wife. I should take care of him. It’s my responsibility.”

 

Sydney emitted sounds of higher and higher incredulity with each sentence Rosalyn spoke, like a piano being tuned. For the first time, she realized Rosalyn was wearing one of her Gunne Sax dresses.

 

“I’m just saying,” Rosalyn continued, “that I don’t think you should be trying this little domestic _experiment_ when Irving’s life is on the line! I know how to take care of him, I know this house, I know this family—“ She put her hand to her heart. “If you want what’s best for Irving, you should just walk away and let me handle this.”

 

“You? You couldn’t take care of a seven-year-old boy, how are you gonna take care of Irv?”

 

Then Rosalyn realized that Sydney was wearing a pair of her hot pants _and_ her two-way blouse. “I’ve been his wife for years. You’ve only been moved in for maybe a month!”

 

“I’ve been more of a wife to him in a month than you have in years! We both know he wouldn’t have even had a heart attack if it weren’t for _you_ and your _baggage_ and your _mobster ex-boyfriend!”_

“Me?” Rosalyn was so offended, she squeaked. “It’s all my fault? If there was anyone who was putting stress on his heart, it was you! With all your—deviant sex kinks!”

 

Sydney’s eyes opened further than a set of umbrellas. “ _What?”_

“I saw you and Irving the other night, I know what you two get up to! You’re just a hot-bottomed little whore and you use him for some sick sexual glee and I bet it’s having to fuck you every night that put him in the hospital! I bet cash money!”

 

Sydney crossed her arms. “You’re a psychopath.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t know what’d be worse, if you do all your whoring with him or if you spread it around the neighborhood. I bet it’s the second one, but you’ll still such a slut you gave him a cardiac trying to keep up! I know girls like you!” Rosalyn counted off on her fingers. “I bet you fuck the neighborhood boys and the married men, maybe even the women, you seemed to really like it when I kissed you that time!”

 

“ _You_ kissed _me._ ”

 

Her plump arms crossed, Rosalyn stared at Sydney the way a mother would stare at an untrustworthy teenager. “I bet you fuck anything with a cock hung in front. Thank Christ we don’t have a dog, Sydney. God knows what kind of VDs a dog could get from a person.”

 

“I don’t have to listen to this—“

 

“You’re a whore! You’re such a whore you had to get cock from other women’s husbands! You had to get it from me! You’re so goddamned whore-happy that you can’t even live without fucking around!”

 

“Well he ended up with me, so he must prefer a whore to _you!”_ Sydney replied in a huff, her breasts shaking with the heated gobs of breath she took.

 

Head down, Rosalyn sulked. She was tired of looking Sydney in the eye. “You think you’re special? You really think you’re special. I was special too. It’s always great when it starts, but you’re just this year’s model of me. Sooner or later he’s gonna get bored of you and he’s gonna lose you just like he lost me!”

 

Sydney bore down on her, coming so close Rosalyn had to face her. “So I’m you, huh?”

 

“You wish you could be,” Rosalyn spat in her face. “I held onto him for so damn long. He’s only with you because I let him go.”

 

“If I’m you, then you should recognize _this.”_

 

Sydney grabbed Rosalyn in a kiss that, with her already overheated, could’ve set her on fire. And as much rage and pain were behind the kiss, Rosalyn could only think of how much softer Sydney’s mouth was than Pete’s, than Irving’s. She didn’t want to be kissed—why would she?—but that whore mouth of Sydney’s was really soft, really warm, really _new._ Rosalyn froze, just taking in the novelty. And she stayed frozen.

 

But as soft as her mouth was, the woman was _strong._ She took Rosalyn by the shoulders and backed her into the refrigerator, still kissing her. “If you saw me sucking his prick,” Sydney said between tastes of Rosalyn’s tongue, “then this cunt of yours must’ve been wet ever since.”

 

Rosalyn felt nothing but Sydney’s tongue, electric and stimulating, until a warm hand slid up her dress. More electricity; inside her panties now. Rosalyn felt wired up like Christmas lights. Those fingers knew exactly where to touch and how. Rosalyn gasped away Sydney’s tongue in recognition of their expertise.

 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sydney said against her mouth. “I went to a British boarding school. I know how to fuck women.”

 

Her fingers twisted, and that was more than enough to overcome the shock of tasting her own medicine for Rosalyn. She could even put up with those big heifer tits pressed up against her own if it meant keeping those beautiful fingers in her cunt. Sydney kissed her again, and for the first time in her life, Rosalyn submitted meekly.

 

Or she would’ve, if Sydney had just kept kissing her and touching her, not taken Rosalyn’s hand and led it down her shorts, where Sydney was even softer and wetter and more thrilling than her mouth. Realizing what she was touching—seeing Sydney quake and tremble in the beginnings of release—Rosalyn pulled her hand back, her mouth away.

 

“Get the fuck off me! Fucking queer! Fucking dyke bitch!” Rosalyn wiped her own lipstick off her mouth. “I’m telling Irving.”

 

“Tell him!” Sydney shot back.

 

“I will!” Rosalyn stomped for the bedroom, nearly going down as she tried to balance on her suddenly towering heels. “I’ll tell him what a fucking rugmuncher you are! No one wants a wife who’s a rugmuncher!”

 

“Then why’d he marry _you_?” Sydney demanded, following so closely that her words hit the back of Rosalyn’s neck, dripping hot oil on her already overwarm body. “You loved every finger I put in there! You couldn’t get enough of it! You must be a _real_ lezbo to get off so hard on another woman! I bet that’s why you can’t keep a man. Bet that’s why you’re such a frigid bitch. You don’t want cock, you want a nice wet cooch!”

 

Rosalyn barged into Irving’s room, finding him snoring like a broken vacuum cleaner. She pounded on the mattress with both fists, waking him up. His head jerked up to see the two women standing over him, both fuming with rage, Sydney’s hands pressed into fists, Rosalyn’s nails ready to claw her rival’s eyes out.

 

“What the—what’s goin’—who’s dead?” he asked woozily.

 

Rosalyn pointed desperately at Sydney. “You wanna know who you’re raising our kid with? You wanna know who you’re married to? She’s a lesbian, Irv! You married a big, cuntlapping lesbian slut and she just assaulted me! She tried to make me a lezbo!”

 

Sydney gave Rosalyn a hard shove. “She kissed me first, I was just kissing her back! She was the one who enjoyed it! She let me _finger her_ , Irving, _me._ ”

 

“She seduced me!” Rosalyn protested, raising her leg to give Sydney a kick but then wobbling unsteadily on her one remaining heel. “Everyone knows that women know how to please women better than men—“

 

“Ha!” Sydney cried. “Is that not something a lesbian would say? _Is that not something a lesbian would say?”_

“Clearly not, because I said it! I’m not gay, I have a kid! You’re gay!”

 

“You kissed me first!”

 

“I didn’t fucking finger you!”

 

“You were about to!”

 

“When I came to my senses and remembered I was married!”

 

“He divorced you, you stupid bitch, and don’t even pretend that you wussing out had anything to do with Irving!”

 

“I love him!” Rosalyn ran to Irving, bypassing Sydney like a quarterback making a run into the end zone, grabbing Irving by the face with both hands and kissing him as many times as she possibly could before Sydney pulled her away. “See how in love we are, Sydney? It must sicken you, seeing me doing this with a man. Why don’t you just get out of here, go to some lavender bar, and kiss all the girls you want?”

 

Sydney struggled, trying to keep Rosalyn in her grip when the other woman clearly wanted to continue her charm offensive against Irving. “I don’t know any lavender bars! Maybe you could give me directions?” Rosalyn bit her. “Fucking bitch!”

 

Sydney threw Rosalyn down on the bed, across Irving’s legs. She slapped the other woman silly and threw her dress up to her tits. Rosalyn’s panties she jerked down her legs. “Look, Irv. Look how wet she is. Think that’s from kissing you?”

 

“It is!” Rosalyn protested. “It’s all for him, I was even thinking of him while you were fingering me!”

 

“Bullshit!” Sydney screamed. She climbed atop Rosalyn. “I’m gonna fuck you, you bitch! I’m gonna fuck you until you admit what a lesbian you are!”

 

And she fell on Rosalyn, kissing her again, touching her again—hearing her moan again.

 

“Ladies?” Irving murmured. “You’re kinda crushing me here…?”

 

Both women ignored him, despite Sydney speaking to him as she quickly found Rosalyn’s clitoris, the perfect size to tickle, stroke, pinch. “Look at how big her clit is, Irv. Have you ever seen a clit that big on a straight woman?”

 

Below Sydney, Rosalyn’s mask had slipped. Her aggressively judgmental scowl, her blazingly assertive eyes, her scrunched-up boxer’s nose—they’d become flushed cheeks, flaring nostrils, a slack mouth with a pleasure-curled tongue inside. She was as beautiful as ever, but with her eyes glazed over with lust, she was even more exciting to behold. Irving felt himself harden, seeing that look in her eyes. Maybe not being able to feel his legs wasn’t such a bad thing.

 

Both women were quickly forgetting their Sapphic concerns. Sydney was becoming absorbed in Rosalyn’s pending orgasm, as was Rosalyn, obviously enough. It no longer mattered to either woman that Irving was watching, that a woman was fingering her or being fingered by her. All the three of them wanted was to experience, even secondhand, the orgasm Rosalyn was so clearly gearing up for.

 

“Are you going to come?” Sydney asked eagerly, her fingers raking Rosalyn hard like she meant for the blonde’s big tits to jiggle like they were. “Are you going to come from having a woman fingering your cunt like the big fat lezbo you are?”

 

“If I’m going to come—“ Rosalyn panted, “it’s only because Irving’s here and I’m thinking of how much better he would fuck me if you hadn’t given him a fucking heart attack so he can’t fucking fuck me **you fucking—** “

 

Irving watched Rosalyn trail off into an orgasm, the intermission of the awesome spectacle before him. The big blonde was slapped across his legs, her neatly-coiffed hair worked into a jungle by sweat and motion, while Sydney mounted her like a lion atop a gazelle, her perky breasts pushing little round nipples through her blouse.

 

“You’re real good at that,” Rosalyn moaned dreamily before blinking away her orgasm. “I mean—you’re really good at that for a straight woman! Bet you’ve done it before plenty of times! I bet you fuck a girl behind Irving’s back every day just so you have something to think about when you have to touch his disgusting, hideous cock!”

 

“Hey now—“ Irving objected.

 

“Don’t look at me!” Rosalyn yelped. “I love your cock, baby, she’s the fucking lesbian, _she hates cock!_ ”

 

“She’s the one who came! Does she ever come with you, Irv?”

 

Irving looked abashed. “Well, I give it the ol’ college try, but sometimes—“

 

“She’s thinking about other women,” Sydney proposed snidely. “ _That’s_ why.”

 

“That doesn’t fucking count!” Rosalyn’s shriek could be heard throughout the house; fortunately, Danny had been sent next door for a sleepover so he wouldn’t be frightened by his father’s condition. “She was fingering me, right? So I come from being fingered, so what, everyone does? Especially when they’re huge-man-dyke-hands like she has! If Irving fingered me, I’d come then too!”

 

“She’s gotta point there,” Irving said consideringly. He wilted under Sydney’s turning gaze. “Not that you have masculine hands, she’s wrong there, but all I’m saying is, I know some lesbians, they use dildos—big things shaped like dongs, right? That doesn’t mean they like dongs, it’s just the shape and the motion, right? You could bring in a little green man, he could finger her, she’d come… doesn’t mean she’s gotta thing for aliens.”

 

“She’s a lesbian!” Sydney protested. “She kissed me! What do I have to do to prove it to you?”

 

Irving rubbed his beard. He still wasn’t quite sure what the hell was going on, why he’d just seen a woman give another woman an orgasm practically on his lap, or if he really had died and gone to Heaven (if he had, he didn’t think Rosalyn would be there—maybe Christie Brinkley, not a guy’s _ex-wife,_ c’mon). But he was very clear on a certain point: he did not want the world’s strangest invitation to a threesome to end.

 

“I don’t know—maybe you could lick her pussy a bit. I think a woman’s tongue is a lot different from a man’s. At least, it was when I kissed that guy.”

 

“Oh, did she take you to a gay club?” Rosalyn asked.

 

“It was for a con, I didn’t enjoy it, his mustache itched—“

 

“Tell me about it,” Rosalyn and Sydney said simultaneously.

 

“I’m just saying—“ Irving insisted, “if she were a lesbian, she’d get off on having her kitty licked. That’s for certain.”

 

Sydney’s brow knotted with determination. “You think I won’t eat her out to prove she’s a dyke? She’s gonna come so hard, Irving, you’ll see. I bet she squirts. I bet she squirts just from having my tongue in her dirty cunt.”

 

“You couldn’t make me squirt if you had Burt Reynolds’ mustache!” Rosalyn challenged.

 

Sydney sunk to her knees before her. Her clawed fingers ripped at Rosalyn’s—her—dress. It hung in tatters around her nude body when she was done. Rosalyn’s muted protests became impatient pleas as Sydney ran her tongue daringly up Rosalyn’s leg. Sydney was quick to oblige her, reaching the blonde wisps that clad Rosalyn’s pussy and thrusting her tongue through them. Rosalyn whimpered in frustrated outrage, even as her legs parted and her hips thrust forward to capture that probing tongue inside her.

 

“Go ahead, Sydney!” Rosalyn taunted. “Lick it! Suck it! Make me come!”

 

Her head fell back to the mattress as Sydney, for the first time in her life, listened to Rosalyn Rosenfeld. Rosalyn’s clit was as big as ever and for Sydney, it was almost too easy to lick it. Suck it. Make Rosalyn come.

 

Rosalyn grasped Sydney’s head like it held the secrets of the universe, holding it still for her to work her twat against and claim her own pleasure. “Yes! Lick it! Suck it!” she repeated, far less challengingly. “Make me commmmm…” She moaned the word into inarticulateness, humping frantically against the face of her arch-rival as Sydney brought her to completion.

 

When Sydney rose, it was to display a smile dripping with juices. She rubbed it in by kissing Rosalyn; letting her taste her own cunt. And Rosalyn liked the taste, judging by how her tongue met Sydney’s…

 

Irving arched a knee. It was the only way to hide the tent his erection had made of the bedspread. “That… seemed somewhat conclusive,” he ventured.

 

Rosalyn’s eyes flashed with hatred once more. She’s the dyke!” Digging her fingers into Sydney’s skin hard enough to draw blood, she flipped their positions. Fell on Rosalyn with kisses that seemed designed to suck her soul up her throat. “You hear how bad she wanted to eat me out?” Rosalyn screamed when she wasn’t kissing Sydney. “Bet she’s been planning it since we first met. I bet it’s written all over her dream journal!”

 

“—don’t have a dream journal,” Sydney panted as she humped against Rosalyn’s well-situated leg.

 

“Also a good point,” Irving said. “We should—“

 

Sydney cut him off. “You think I won’t get my pussy licked by a woman?” she asked. She pulled down her shorts, panties and all, like they were on fire. “I bet you love the taste of pussy, Rosalyn. It’s hot and tangy and so sweet you can’t fucking quit it.”

 

She clambered over Rosalyn’s body to sit on her face, but the blonde fought back, slapping Sydney across the face like she meant to knock her head off. Sydney landed on the foot of the bed and Rosalyn dove atop her. Sydney was seeing stars exploding as well as Rosalyn’s lust-twisted face up close and personal.

 

“I’ll show you who’s a lesbian. I’ll show you who’s a fucking lesbian!” Rosalyn cried, and ripped open her own blouse to get to the big brown nipples at the end of Sydney’s jutting tits.

 

She could taste the sweat right off, but that went away soon after, leaving only the taste of the nipple. A taste that was uniquely Sydney. Uniquely female. And she reached down between Sydney’s legs and felt a wet pussy, a clit as big as hers on that fucking hypocrite. She slapped them both, pinched them both, and so what if it caused Sydney more pleasure than pain? The woman was a freak. She’d get off on anything.

 

It felt good to have Sydney shaking and quivering as easily as she would switch on one of Danny’s toys. Finally, someone could see how powerful she was. With a curl of her fingers another woman’s hips surged. With a roll of her tongue another woman’s voice sounded in helpless delight. And when she did it all at once…

 

“Goddamn fucking lesbian!” Sydney exploded, her eyes flooding with embarrassed tears as she came. It literally gushed out of her, her juices stinging her thighs and slapping the mattress under her thighs, the relief as heavy as the humiliation.

 

“Look at this fucking dyke!” Rosalyn cried out gleefully, as she clapped her hand to Sydney’s crotch and rubbed the hot liquid of her orgasm into Sydney’s groin. “If she came any harder, she’d knock me up again!”

 

That said, Rosalyn dropped down and stabbed her tongue into Sydney’s cunt like she was trying to plug a leak. Sydney gasped out haltering, high-pitched noises, reaching to Irving for support. She thought she was coming again, or maybe she was still coming. It was hard to tell. All she could do was aid her body in pushing the wet orgasm out of her cunt.

 

She could no longer see her pleasure flowing, just Rosalyn’s wicked face sitting on her cunt. And she had to say something to that smug look on the bitch’s face. “Eat my cunt, you cunt!” she roared. “You eat me when I come for you, got it!?” She shoved Rosalyn deeper between her legs, saw her juices flow over that stupid face, and felt that beautiful tongue helping to empty her overflowing cunt.

 

After patting the sheets a moment, she found Irving’s leg and squeezed it. But no sooner had she gotten a grip then he pried her hand away and brought it to his cock. He was extremely erect, and when her hand wrapped around him, Irving only seemed to get more so. His manhood strained to extend itself beyond the limits biology had placed on it.

 

“Is this straight enough for you, bitch?” she demanded of Rosalyn. Her hand blurred. “I’m jacking my husband off while you make me cuh-cuh—“ She groaned, a shudder beginning at the base of her spine and spreading like a disease, becoming a moan of delight that Rosalyn could feel rattle her teeth. Sydney’s latest climax traveled her sex and was gulped down Rosalyn’s throat. “—come,” Sydney finished groggily.

 

She went limp, her hand unmoving but clinging to Irving’s cock. Her afterglow felt like a sunburst in her pussy, warming her from the inside-out. The last drops of her orgasm dripped to a saturated mattress.

 

Sydney watched drowsily as Rosalyn’s hand encircled her own, joining together on Irving’s phallus, and as one, they gave it the last few jerks it so desperately needed. Irving groaned, grunted, gurgled, gasped, all at once, as his cock blew thick white ropes over their conjoined hands as well as his own legs and belly.

 

For once, Rosalyn ignored the sticky mess. Hugging Sydney to herself, she muscled the redhead up next to Irving. She even played with Sydney’s cunt a little more, as softly as she’d hold a baby animal. Sydney didn’t know what it was between them, but Rosalyn suddenly seemed to care about her at least well enough to bring her down, sweetly, sisterly, from the sudden towering height she had reached. Shivers, warm not cold, had her quaking in Rosalyn’s arms, and it was only when Irving embraced her as well that her overworked clit finally felt soothed.

 

Much like her husband, Sydney was not quite sure where she was, but she was aware of milking the dregs of Irving’s climax from him and feeling wonderfully relieved, everywhere, about everything.

 

“Okay,” Rosalyn said, seemingly full all of a sudden with heartfelt sincerity. “I might be a lesbian.”

 

“Me too,” Sydney added.

 

“Me three,” Irving said.

 

“You can’t be a lesbian,” Rosalyn yawned. “You have a heart condition. You’re not supposed to have sex for two weeks. That probably took a year off your life.”

 

“It’d be worth it,” Irving mused. “And what do I care what some quack has to say about _my_ heart? It’s not like any of those whitecoats kept me from having a heart attack in the first place, is it? And now they know how to keep me from having another and it’s not to have any threesomes with my two wives? Fucking disgrace!”

 

“That gives me an idea!” Sydney said, wide awake all of a sudden.

 

Which woke Rosalyn right up. “I’ll do it. Anything. Anything you want. As long as you make me come like you did. I lied about the butt stuff, I really liked it, Pete was just being an asshole about it. _I am up for butt stuff.”_

“Not _that,_ ” Sydney said quickly. “I was thinking that, since Irving is out of commission, you and I could attend to each other’s… needs.”

 

Rosalyn rolled her hands in exasperation. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking! So let’s get started!”

 

“I could buy a video recorder,” Irving said. “Have you seen those things? They’re amazing.”

 

“Oh, you can watch,” Sydney said, turning to Irving. “So long as you follow the doctors’ orders. Eat healthy, long walks twice a day, no smoking, no drinking—“

 

“Babe, babe, c’mon—“

 

Rosalyn latched onto the idea like a barracuda. “Irving, I hate the thought of cheating on you. I _hate it._ But Sydney’s right, this is for your own good. We’ll let you watch us fuck—“

 

“Which we’re only doing to get you healthy,” Sydney added in a sop to Rosalyn’s myriad neuroses.

 

“Yes. We’ll put on dirty, degrading, disgusting shows of lust and homosexuality,” Rosalyn tried to hide a shudder of excitement, “but only to motivate you to lose weight.”

 

“And quit smoking,” Sydney added.

 

“You need to quit smoking, babe.”

 

Irving thought it over. “What about toys?”

 

“What about ‘em?” Sydney fired back, as Rosalyn tried to conceal a sudden ‘eep’.

 

Irving plucked at his fingers as he counted. “Beads, dildos, whips, vibrators, strap-ons, cuffs—I’m giving up red meat here. I think I’m entitled to a little bit more than a little sorority house business.”

 

Rosalyn jumped in. “Lose five pounds by next month. Then we’ll talk.” She rolled away from them suddenly. “I’m not sleeping on the wet spot; not my fault Sydney had a water balloon stuffed up her cunt. I’ll be in the guest bedroom. If I don’t get my afternoon nap in, my sleep cycle’s gonna be completely fucked.”

 

Sydney watched her go, as adroitly as Irving did. Once the door shut behind her, she grabbed Irving by the lapels.

 

“You. Have got. To lose. Five. Pounds.”


End file.
